rob clarke and the wooltones

Much bunting hoisted aloft and good cheer in the Sunday experience listening shed at the appearance of a new pop platter from those dudes of renegade Scouse rock a hula Rob Clarke and the Wooltones. Having already been the cause of swooning fits not just once but twice with both ‘are you wool toned’ and ‘the maxi single’ hugging the turntable upon release, the blighters achieve something of a rare feat in these pages by the delivery of a third helping of dandified dansette grooviness. ’the brown single’ promises a rethinking of the concept album model here shoehorned into 8 finite minutes of bluesy boogaloo, but hey you don’t want to get tirelessly drawn into old fangled distractions that’s for muso bores and prog heads who happily yawn their way through evenings in the avoid at all costs corner of the snug in your chosen local, hell we’ll be talking about what strings they use next and what key they are tuned to. Happily we are made of sterner stuff, though on repeat listens I’m fairly certain we are missing an impish trick or two. Five tracks feature on ‘the brown single‘ well four if you discount the ‘interlude‘ or two if you chose to overlook ‘at the shop‘ and ‘butter slices‘ – both clocking in respectively at 57 and 36 seconds, the former a kind of mischievous slice of Rutles meets Monty Python nonsense with the latter being what sounds like the opening gamut of some big screen cliff hanging epic, either that or the painfully slow trudge of an infamous trade description deceiving train carriage embarking on an endless and mirthless passage from Liverpool to West Kirby. And so if our calculations are right we be left with just two tracks – both damn fine at that for these darlings come swaggering in the kind of authentic smoking cool 60’s apparel that suggests they’ve just sauntered from out of the back way of a magical shop through some kind of a time portal, first up the psych pop silvered ’butter’ is sumptuously honey glazed in a shit faced tab toking aura so laid back its almost comatose, admirers of a youthful Of Arrowe Hill ought to be on high alert given this babe uncoils like some darkly wrapped peculiar paisley pop brew replete with hushed harmonies, snaking riffola and fried lysergic motifs, as though those OAH imps are at large re-branding their trademark want and applying a freakish makeover on the mop tops ‘revolver’. well to cool and sassy for its own good ’our business’ is your slinky Brit popped slab of ultra 60’s groove-a-rama, all smouldered in fuzzed out flurries, harking Hammonds and psychedelicised murmurs in short if we didn’t know better we have it nailed down as a shimmer toned purring T-Rexian Monkees babe. Essential – like you hadn‘t already guessed.

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